


Yellow Moon

by coffeeandcheesecake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandcheesecake/pseuds/coffeeandcheesecake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak hasn't said a word for three years. The mountains and a beautiful boy might give him a reason to speak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the play "Yellow Moon" by David Greig. You should probably go read the play after you read this because it's infinity times better.
> 
> Many, many thanks to my lovely betas, Jill and Eve!
> 
> Enjoy :)

Castiel is seventeen years old and his mother despairs of him. As he is preceded by four older brothers who made excellent grades, earned numerous awards, and maintained healthy social lives during their high school years, Mrs. Novak expected that her youngest son would follow in their glorious footsteps.

Instead, Castiel reads paperbacks, and he doesn’t talk.

He stopped in the early days of his high school career, and no amount of counseling from psychologists, pills from psychiatrists, or pleading from his parents could force sound from behind his lips.

In school, no one speaks to him. He never had many friends, but the few students who had tried to befriend him to get closer to his older brothers have faded into the background since Michael, Gabriel, and Luke have all graduated. He belongs to no clubs, takes very few extracurriculars. His lab partner, Anna, is nice, and she tolerates him, but she has her own friends, and no one has much interest in the mute baby brother of the Novak family.

So while Castiel’s peers are at the mall or the movies or getting drunk in each other’s basements, Castiel is standing in the aisle of the local convenience store that holds the truly terrible dramatic and romantic paperbacks.

The cover of the one Castiel has in his hands shows a woman in a low-cut red dress, slumped in the arms of a gleaming man. His nose is buried in her bosom and her nails clutch the bowling ball-sized muscles of his arms. He wonders at the way the woman’s head is thrown back in apparent ecstasy.

Castiel knows that if his mother were here in the store, she would yank the book from his fingers and place it back on the shelf. If he comes home with it, she will stamp her feet and claim loudly and dramatically that he did it purposely to upset her. She is incorrect. Castiel brings the book up to the checkout lane.

Before he can hand the novel to the pimply boy working the register, something large and dark hits the window of the store at an alarming speed, cracking the glass and making the teenage cashier screech.

A moment later, the bell above the door jangles, and in stumbles a young man, covered head to toe in blood.

“Get down!” he shouts, and when he does, Castiel recognizes him.

Dean. Winchester, he thinks. From school.

The cashier flings himself down on the floor, apparently too terrified to question the order that had been barked at him. Castiel is slightly more discerning.

Dean Winchester glares at him, hair matted with mud, eyes green and startling against his bloodied face.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he growls. “Get the fuck down!”

Castiel, again, does not acquiesce. Dean gives him a look, and Castiel thinks for a moment that the other boy is going to come over and make him, but before he can, the door swings open again and Dean springs into a fighter’s stance.

Castiel is expecting a thug with a gun, or a wild animal, something that looks like it could put that much blood onto Dean’s face. But what walks through the door almost makes him gasp. It’s a little girl.

“Dean,” the little girl says, her voice lilting and pathetic. “I told you. If you don’t stop being so mean, I’m going to have to hurt you again.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow as he looks from Dean to the little girl. She has blonde pigtails and she’s wearing coveralls. But her lips are curled into a sneer that doesn’t fit the youth of her face.

“Give me the knife, Dean,” the little girl says again. “Or I’ll hunt down your civilian brother and rip his heart out through his eye sockets.”

“Don’t even talk about my brother,” Dean grits out, and sure enough, he pulls a jagged knife out of the pocket of his coat. “The only way you’re going to touch this knife is when it goes right through your guts, you sick little bitch.”

“Give it to me!” the little girl screams and launches herself at Dean, her tiny fingers clearly intent on clawing at his face.

Castiel doesn’t think. He just watches as his hand moves of its own accord, picks up a bottle of wine from the shelf next to him, and hurls it at the girl.

It misses, but the bottle does crash into the opposite wall, cabernet splattering against the paint like a mockery of a crime scene. The little girl’s eyes flick from the dripping wine to Castiel, who is still standing and staring at her with the romance novel in his hand.

She starts for him, snarling, and before Castiel can even begin to think about defending himself, her eyes suddenly crackle with flame and her lips open in a scream. Dean has buried the blade in her back. The little girl’s eyes go out. She slumps to the floor. The cruelty is gone from her face; all that’s left is pigtails and freckles in a puddle of blood.

Dean Winchester just stares at Castiel.

“Oh... my... god...”

The cashier chooses this moment to clamber out from behind the counter, and his eyes almost loosen themselves from his face when he takes in the body of the child on the ground and the bloodstained knife clutched in Dean’s fist.

“You,” he says, pointing a trembling finger at Dean. “You killed her.”

“Weren’t you listening?” Dean asks, exasperated, but the kid is already scrambling for the phone.

“Hello? Hello? Is this the police?”

“Shit,” Dean wipes the knife on the little girl’s coveralls and pockets it.

Castiel doesn’t know why, but he follows Dean Winchester out of the store. He can already hear the distant sound of sirens.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dean mutters, then he looks at Castiel. “Well? Are you coming or are you coming?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. He follows Dean to his car.

\----

They’ve been driving for close to four hours, and neither of them has said a single word. This isn’t unusual for Castiel, but Dean keeps opening his mouth and then closing it again.

“She wasn’t a little girl, you know,” he says finally.

Castiel doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. Dean sees the aborted movement and chuckles.

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t be here if you thought she was, huh?” 

Dean looks out at the road before him. It’s so dark; all Castiel can see is what the headlights illuminate directly before them. The rest looks as if it had been colored in by black marker.

“You’re... Castiel Novak, right?”

Castiel nods his head.

“I thought so. I’ve, uh. I’ve seen you around. And... I’ve heard of you. Sort of. I’ve only been in Westborough for a few weeks, but I’ve heard you don’t talk.”

Castiel shrugs. He’s known since early high school that his lack of verbal communication makes his peers uncomfortable and gossipy. He’s been poked and prodded by their questions for years; it barely even bothers him anymore.

He’s prepared for Dean to say, “Why?” He’s prepared for Dean to say, “That’s stupid.” He’s prepared for Dean to say, “We’re basically partners in crime here, buddy, if I go down, you’re going down with me, now is hardly the time to cling to some stupid habit you clearly only use to get attention, so man up and let’s talk about where we’re even going right now.”

He isn’t prepared for Dean to say, “Cool. I can talk for the both of us, so no worries.”

Dean is looking at the road, so he probably can’t see Castiel’s mouth hanging open like a fish, but there’s a tiny smile on his face, so Castiel isn’t sure.

“We’re going up to the Catskills,” he says, seemingly reading Castiel’s mind and answering his unspoken question. “My dad’s up there, in a cabin. We can hide out for a while.”

Castiel nods. There’s a long silence.

“She was a demon, by the way.”

Castiel turns to look at Dean, who is studiously avoiding his gaze.

“A demon,” Dean answers his silent, _Excuse me?_ “From... Hell, I guess. They’re real. They have black eyes and they possess people and they’re nasty sons of bitches, and it’s my job to kill them. Me and my dad’s.”

There are a million things Castiel wishes he could say to Dean in this moment. He says none of them, but he wonders why Dean uses the word ‘job’.

They don’t say anything (or rather, Dean doesn’t say anything) again until they start winding into the mountains, and Dean points out landmarks.

“There’s the tree I hit the first time I tried to drive the car. I was thirteen.”

“There’s the house where Dad’s friend Bobby used to live. He’s dead now.”

“There’s the clearing where I brought my first girlfriend. She broke up with me three weeks later.”

Castiel has his own stories to tell, his own landmarks. He still doesn’t say a word. 

\----

Castiel’s mother would be absolutely horrified if she could see him now. He imagines her sitting at home, staring at the clock, which now reads 9:17pm. She is torn between happy hopefulness and dread: Maybe Castiel has found some friends and will be home late. Maybe Castiel is dead and she should call the police. Such is a mother’s lot.

If Castiel were home, he would be reading. He reaches into his pocket absently and realizes that the paperback he was purchasing before Dean came in is there. He must have slipped it in during his altercation with the... the demon. He pulls it out, runs a finger along the exposed neck of the swooning heroine.

“What’s that?”

Dean hands are suddenly on his book, yanking it again. Castiel wants to scold him, say, “Look at the road, Dean” but he doesn’t. Dean examines the book before tossing it back to him.

“You like that romantic crap?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. He chooses glaring as his mode of communication. Dean catches his eye and his face colors slightly.

“Sorry. I, uh... didn’t mean. I mean, hey, if it’s your thing.”

“I don’t read these books for the romance, or for the sex. I read these books because I’m sick of the way people speak to each other. In these books, people say what they feel. People care about the things being said to them. In the real world, nobody cares about what other people say. You are perfectly content to carry on a conversation without me. In these books, words matter. People matter.”

This is what Castiel wishes he could say. Instead, he keeps silent. He thinks about his mother, staring at the clock. He wonders if she regrets never buying him a cell phone.

\----

People don’t really talk to Dean at school, either, which surprises Castiel, because Dean is very attractive. Normally, the attractive people go right to top of the food chain at Westborough High School. But Castiel can’t think of a single person who he would call Dean Winchester’s friend.

Maybe it’s because Dean seems so much older than everyone else. He looks their age, certainly, but there’s something in his eyes that suggests maturity and age. Castiel thinks back to the way his knife pierced the back of that little girl and thinks that makes sense. To be able to stab a child in the back with such determination requires knowledge of true evil, the knowledge of what would come should the child be allowed to live.

Castiel glances over at Dean, sees that look in his eye. He wishes he could wipe it clean; he wishes Dean could be young.

\----

The cabin is, to Castiel’s surprise, nice. It’s clean, the floor swept, the beds made. The lake is visible from the kitchen window, and the setting sun makes the surface of the water glimmer and sparkle.

“My room’s at the end of the hall,” Dean says. “You can take the one next to it, if you want. And I can lend you whatever you need. Like, clothes and stuff.”

Castiel nods in appreciation, and goes to the room Dean pointed out. The room is spacious, with a window that looks onto the lake. There’s a framed picture on the bedside table, of a beautiful blonde woman holding a baby. She looks blissfully, stupidly happy. Castiel runs a finger over her cheek. The glass is dusty.

“That’s my mom,” says Dean at his shoulder.

Castiel jumps.

Dean flashes him a toothy grin. “Did I scare you?” he asks, and holds out pants and a tee shirt. “To sleep in. I mean, you don’t have to go to sleep now. But... for whenever you need them.”

Castiel nods and takes the clothes from Dean, stooping slightly to set them on the bed. When he straightens up again, Dean is inches away from his face, cocky grin still in place.

“Is the bed okay?” he asks, and then in a huskier voice, “You wanna try it out?” 

He waggles his eyebrows. Castiel’s own eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

“Guess you weren’t tuned into the rumor mill in town,” Dean says.

Castiel doesn’t realize how close he is to telling Dean he doesn’t pay much attention to rumors until his mouth is open and the words are on his tongue. He quickly snaps his mouth closed.

“I’m not gay,” Dean says. “I’m just not picky. I like all sorts.”

Castiel’s not an expert in flirtation, but he can read body language, and Dean seems to be hinting pretty heavily. His tongue keeps sweeping out of his mouth to wet his lips, and his eyes are lidded. He’s practically got Castiel backed up into the bed.

They stay frozen like that for a moment until Dean sighs and backs off.

“All right then,” he says. “I can take a hint. Come on, let’s make dinner.”

Dean never seems to grow tired of speaking. He talks while he cooks spaghetti from the pantry, talks while they eat at the sturdy wooden table. He tells Castiel all about Sam, who is currently at boarding school, although, “Dad’s probably pulled him out by now”. He explains the demon situation to Castiel as well: the little girl’s name was Lilith, and she’s been after the Winchesters for years. There are others too, Dean says, others named Azazel, Meg, and Alastair, and they could be anywhere. John, Dean’s father, is on his way to get Sam, just in case the demons try to go after him.

“They’ll be here in a couple days,” Dean says, his mouth full of food. “We’ll decide what to do when Dad gets here. He always knows what to do.”

Castiel doesn’t quite know how he fits into these plans. He was involved in killing Lilith: does that mean the other demons will come after him now? Should he worry about his parents? Or will the Winchesters just take him home once they know he won’t go to the police? He wants desperately to ask these questions, but he fears the answers too much.

After dinner, Dean starts a fire and they sit on the couch in companionable silence, Castiel reading his stolen romance novel, Dean staring into the flames with an unreadable expression.

After about an hour, Dean scoots closer to him on the couch and starts to read over his shoulder.

“So, this sex stuff,” he says. “Do you, like... get off on it?”

Castiel whacks him on the shoulder.

“Okay, fine,” Dean laughs. “I just... I don’t get it, dude. Why read about sex when you can just... have it?”

Castiel must stiffen beside him, because Dean gives him an incredulous look.

“Or... not,” he says carefully. “Are you a virgin, Cas?”

Castiel knows he’s blushing, so he turns his face away so Dean can’t see.

“It’s cool, man,” Dean says earnestly. “I mean, no disrespect. Chastity, and all that.”

Castiel gives him an exasperated glare.

“Okay, okay!” Dean breaks into laughter again. “So, more like... never had the chance?”

Castiel shoves him lightly.

“I spilled my guts all night, Cas, you gotta give me something!” Dean whines. “And just so you know: offer from before still stands. If you’re interested.”

Castiel doesn’t know whether to kiss Dean or punch him very hard in the shoulder. He settles for the latter.

“Ow!” Dean gives him a faux-glare. “Violence, Novak. I bring you on a romantic lake getaway and you won’t even put out. Mark my words: I will get you to talk, and the first words out of your mouth will be, ‘thank you, Dean Winchester, for that fine orgasm’.”

Castiel throws his book at Dean’s head, which causes Dean to launch himself at Castiel, and soon they’ve fallen off the couch completely and are wrestling like puppies on the rug. Castiel doesn’t even realize that he’s laughing until Dean pins his hands and says, “Hey. Something funny?”

Castiel wants to say, “You. This. Us.” Instead he just rolls over so that Dean is pinned beneath him instead.

They’re both out of breath, and Castiel knows Dean is staring at his lips. He knows how easy it would be to dip his head down, brush his mouth against Dean’s, press kisses to his willing neck. Part of him wants to, in a way he’s never known he could want. But then he remembers dinner, and the demons, and how he doesn’t even know where he’s going to be in a few days, and he releases Dean’s wrists and sits up.

He hears Dean sigh, but then the other boy seems to shrug it off, because he says in a bright voice, “You tired? I’m beat. Let’s get to bed.”

They brush their teeth and change into their pajamas, and as Castiel slides between the cool sheets, the lake making soothing noises, he thinks about Dean underneath him, and he hates himself, just a little bit.

\----

Considering that the entire reason Castiel is hiding away in this house in the mountains is that he’s probably wanted for the grisly murder of what looked like a little girl, the next few days are oddly idyllic.

He and Dean become sweetly, silently domestic. Dean makes eggs for breakfast, Castiel makes sandwiches for lunch, and they collaborate on dinner, standing side by side at the stove, frying meat and boiling vegetables. During the day, they laze around on the dock outside, Dean pretending to fish while he watches Castiel lie in the sun. At night, they read or play wordless card games. Dean loses millions of dollars of fake money to Castiel’s excellent poker face.

Castiel wonders briefly about the other demons, Azazel and Alastair and Meg, and whether they can find them in this little haven, and Dean must be able to read minds because only a few hours later, he says, “The other demons can’t find us here, in case you’re wondering. The whole place is warded. And they don’t like salt, so Dad had it enforced into the windowsills and doorways.”

Castiel feels much safer after this, and a little part of him feels warm knowing that Dean can hear him when he doesn’t speak.

Another thing Castiel notices about this paradise is that he can feel Dean’s eyes on him wherever he goes. At first, he thought it was protective, Dean taking over his father’s role to watch out for the civilian. But then their hips bump as they cook together, and Dean smiles at him, or he feels Dean’s breath on his ear when he reads over Castiel’s shoulder, or he’ll just stare, and Castiel feels in these moments like a person. A real person.

It’s the fifth night since they left Westborough behind, and they’re playing ‘go fish’, spread out in front of the fireplace. Castiel holds up two fingers and Dean sighs, handing over his cards.

“Sixes?”

Castiel shakes his head, then mimes a crown and a stern face.

“Kings?” Dean sighs, and throws three cards at Castiel, who cackles. “Dude, how do you do that?”

Castiel shrugs, setting down his full set of kings besides his already completed sets of ones, fours, sevens, and aces.

“Whatever,” Dean flips his cards at Castiel and rolls over onto his back. “You’re too good at cards, dude, you’re gonna get a big head. Just wait until Sam gets here, he’ll cream you in poker.”

Castiel laughs lightly at that. He can’t wait to meet Sam. Dean talks about him almost constantly. He is slightly more hesitant about meeting John. Dean talks about his father like he’s his captain, and Castiel fears how this perfect world they’ve created will change when Dean’s father arrives.

Dean’s arm is about an inch from Castiel’s fingers, so he stretches slightly to play idly at the frayed material of Dean’s sleeve. He can feel Dean watching him, so he glances up. He means to stick out his tongue, make Dean laugh, but the impulse is lost when he sees the look in Dean’s eyes. He recognizes that look; he’s seen it on the covers of the books he reads. That’s truth. And it’s aimed at him.

“I was kidding about us having sex,” Dean says.

The words hit Castiel like a smack in the face. He lets go of Dean’s sleeve.

“No, shit, that’s not what I meant. I meant... ah, fuck.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean rubbing his face with his hand, and then he edges closer to Castiel.

“I meant... it was supposed to be fun,” he says helplessly. “You know. Flirty. Just to take the edge off, for both of us. But Cas, I--”

Dean trails off and Castiel dares a glance at him. He looks lost.

“It’s not just fun anymore, Cas,” Dean says. “It’s real. You and I have been up here for five days, and you’re already the best friend I’ve ever had, and something about you... I don’t know, you just... I’ve been here a million times and it’s just a house, but when you’re here, it’s... like... it’s home.”

Castiel’s heart is pounding so fiercely he’s sure it’s going to beat out of his chest. This is it. This is what he’s been waiting for. This is what his silence has been building up to, why it started in the first place. Dean is speaking to him like he’s a real person, like he matters, like the words he’s saying matter.

“You’re real,” Dean is saying. “I’ve lived my whole life with nightmares and darkness and shadows and besides my family, you’re the only light I’ve ever seen. I swear, Cas, I haven’t laughed this hard in years, and you haven’t even said a word! I don’t even know what your voice sounds like! And I don’t have to, because honestly, Cas, it doesn’t matter, I don’t need to, I want you anyway, so much--”

“Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes widen. Castiel almost looks around for the voice before he realizes that it was his own.

“Did... did you just tell me to shut up?” Dean asks incredulously.

Castiel thinks about the moment he hurled the wine bottle at Lilith’s head to save Dean. Up until this point, he had believed that to be his bravest moment. But now he knows he was wrong. Back then, he didn’t even think about throwing that wine bottle. He just acted.

What he’s about to do is far braver, because he’s fully aware he’s doing it.

He pushes himself off the ground, his legs shaking slightly. Dean is still splayed out on his back, his eyes frozen in perpetual surprise. Castiel places a leg on either side of Dean’s torso and lowers himself gently onto the other boy’s hips. Dean stares up at him like he can’t decide whether to be confused or ecstatic.

“Are you going to kiss me, Cas?” he asks, his voice higher-pitched than normal.

“I told you,” Castiel says, curling his fingers in Dean’s hair, “to shut up.”

And then they’re kissing, and Castiel is suddenly bursting with thousands of unspoken words about every little sensation: the fumbling of inexpert mouths to find a way to move together, tongues that push past lips, licking into warmth and wetness and wow, it’s a good thing his mouth is occupied, because Castiel wants to let every word he’s kept inside for the past three years babble out of him like a river, so he just presses harder into Dean, giving him everything, everything he has.

Somehow they make it off the floor onto the couch, and this time, Dean pins him down and presses hard into him, and Castiel knows why he and Dean work so well. It’s because they don’t need words; they never have. Dean is perfectly willing to give them, and now Castiel can give them back, two-fold, but they, the ‘us’, exists in the quiet way they wash dishes together, the silence of the dock as they fish. It’s now, when hands and tongues and lips say things that words can’t, speak feelings that don’t have words. 

Hours later, they’re curled up on the couch, limbs knotted. Castiel has a cramp in his leg and his pants are sticky and Dean is practically squashing him, but if he didn’t have to, he would never move again. Dean turns his head so his chin is on Castiel’s cheek, so he reaches up and kisses it. He wishes he could kiss every part of Dean, every freckle and scar, until he has them all memorized.

“Thank you, Dean Winchester, for that fine orgasm,” Castiel says.

Dean laughs, big and loud. Castiel can feel it in his stomach.

“I like your voice,” Dean rumbles in his ear. “I know I said I didn’t care, but now that I’ve heard it, you have got to talk more.”

“I don’t take requests,” Castiel teases.

Dean groans and rolls on top of him.

“You’re crushing my lungs,” Castiel swats at him, laughing.

“You calling me fat?” Dean feigns hurt.

Castiel kisses him lightly, then pulls away when Dean tries to follow.

“Oh, so it’s like that,” Dean smirks. “You little tease. Well, then how do you like this?” He buries his nose into Castiel’s shoulder and snuffles wildly.

Castiel yelps and bats ineffectually at Dean’s head until they both roll off the couch and onto the ground, where the wrestling recommences. Only this time, it progresses to Castiel’s dick in Dean’s mouth, and it’s very late when they tumble into Dean’s bed, tangled together like twine.

“Goodnight,” Dean mumbles into Castiel’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel sighs.

“Ooh, I like when you say my name. Say it again.”

“ _Goodnight, Dean._ ”

\----

Castiel wakes the next morning, alone in the big bed, to the sound of yelling.

When he first opens his eyes, he thinks (hopes, prays) that he’s dreaming, but the voices get louder and there’s a point where his brain is so awake that there’s no point in pretending anymore. His is frozen for a moment by the terrifying thought that the demons have found them, but quickly the rational part of his brain yawns and reminds him that if they had been discovered by demons, there would hardly be yelling, and rather, Castiel would have woken to the sound of dead silence.

In the moments it takes for him to dress and slip on his shoes, the voices escalate and he rushes into the kitchen to find Dean being screamed at by a gruff looking man with a gun. The man’s back is to Castiel, and Dean’s eyes find his. He shakes his head slightly, and Castiel can see “get out, get out” written plainly on his face, but before he can retreat back into his room, the mysterious man rounds on him.

“And here he is!” the man shouts, and Castiel cowers. “The civilian! Dean, goddamnit, what were you thinking?”

“He helped me kill Lilith, Dad!” Dean defends weakly. “I couldn’t just leave him! He helped me and I needed backup until you and Sam got here!”

“Backup!” Dean’s father barks a laugh. “Dean, the kid has clearly never held a gun in his life, you think he’s going to be much help against demons? Just tell the truth, you brought him up here because you needed a fuck, plain and simple. Don’t try and lie to me, Dean Winchester, I know you too well.”

Castiel feels sick, not just in his stomach, but everywhere: his head, his hands, his trembling legs. He catches Dean’s eyes again and he can’t tell if the apology in them is because John Winchester is wrong or because he’s right.

It’s terrifying, not being able to read Dean.

And then John Winchester is back on him. “Well, civilian?” he says. “Got anything to say for yourself? Got any special superpowers we don’t know about? Besides being a good little bitch to my son, here?”

“Dad, leave him alone, he doesn’t talk--”

“No, sir,” Castiel says, quiet but firm. He’s completely terrified of this huge, bearded man but he refuses to be thought of as a powerless plaything. Even if that’s exactly what you are, a voice inside his head taunts.

“No,” John shakes his head. “Well, then _get out!_ ”

Castiel’s body responds faster than his brain, leaping into action and fleeing like an escaped animal. His legs take him out of the cabin, down the gravel driveway, out into the forest. He darts through the trees, almost stumbles on a couple of loose roots, loses a shoe along the way, runs and runs and runs until his legs are burning and he knows he’s completely, hopelessly lost. It comforts him to know that he couldn’t find his way back even if he wanted to. He won’t be the week, impotent civilian who wanders back to John Winchester for help.

He can still see the lake through the trees, so he figures as long as he sticks close to the water, he won’t die of dehydration.

Why are you even trying to stay alive? the traitorous part of his brain thinks. Are you going to go home? Back to silence and a school full of people who don’t listen and don’t care, back to a disappointed mother and a shelf full of books? The only good thing you ever had was Dean, and he was never really yours.

Castiel is suddenly so full of anger that he can’t stop his hands from shaking.

“I will stay alive,” he says out loud, to the birds in the trees who are listening. “I am not weak. I am not a civilian. I am not just someone to fuck.”

The birds twitter back to him in their language, and for some reason, this heartens Castiel, and he sets off into the forest again.

He walks for an hour and he thinks about Dean. He thinks about Dean’s eyes, lit up by firelight, and Dean’s hands that touched every last inch of him as they curled up together. He thinks about Dean’s mouth, the way it pressed into him, pulled him closer, fell open in pleasure when he came, smiled sweetly at him as they fell asleep together.

He thinks about how all of that could have been a lie.

After a few miles, close to the water, he comes upon a small cave. It’s not really even a cave, just a small opening into the steep cliff that juts out into the lake. It’s far too small for anything to have made a home in, lucky for Castiel, and so he claims it. It’s still quite early in the morning, and Castiel has nothing to do, so he curls up against the rock and falls asleep, his mind unable to banish the image of Dean’s face, apologizing for the words he didn’t refute.

When he wakes again, it must be past noon, because the sun is high in the sky. Castiel’s stomach feels like it’s eating itself, so he sets out in search of food. He doesn’t trust his instincts on any of the berries or nuts he comes across (he was never a Boy Scout or anything like that) but he learned enough about fishing from Dean in the past five days to head down to the lake, dig a worm out of the dirt, and set up a crude fishing pole.

Shocking himself and the animals around him, he manages to catch a tiny fish (he imagines that the birds and squirrels are all watching him, anticipating his inevitable failure to report back to John Winchester just how inept the civ really is) and he patiently waits for it to flap itself into suffocation before he takes it back to his cave.

Castiel supposes that his survival instincts could be chalked up to natural selection, but he’s almost surprised with how quickly he is able to adapt. Lighting a fire takes him forever, but he manages to coax a tiny flicker out of some dry sticks and leaves, just enough to roast his little fish on a sharp stick.

It’s not nearly enough meat to satisfy him, but it calms the pangs of his stomach for the time being, and he stretches out, pleased with himself. The satisfaction fades quickly, however. It was all easy today, but what happens when it gets cold? When there are no fish? And what if there are other predators in these woods?

He wishes he had his book.

Even worse, he realizes miserably, he misses talking. He didn’t speak for four years, and now he has to resist opening his mouth and babbling to the trees. Dean made him want to speak. Dean made him want to be heard.

He picks up a fistful of leaves and flings it at the nearest tree. He tries very, very hard, with every scrap of his being, to hate Dean. But all he can think about is Dean’s face when he threw the bottle at Lilith, Dean’s hands on the steering wheel as they wound their way up through the mountains, Dean’s fingers running through his hair, and he can’t do it, he can’t hate him, not after all this.

He thinks briefly of this mother. He feels a pang of guilt that he hasn’t thought about her in days, wonders if she’s called the police. He wonders bitterly if she even cares. She has to care, Castiel thinks. I’m her son. This thought does not give him much reassurance. If his mother only loves him out of obligation, how can he expect anyone, especially Dean Winchester, to want him around?

The night falls, and gets cold. Castiel can’t see his breath, but he’s sure it’s a close thing, and he huddles as close as he can to the stone wall. Being close to the water has its drawbacks; he can feel the strong breezes coming off the lake, and his clothes were not designed to keep him warm. He is almost asleep, arms wrapped around himself in a false imitation of the previous night, when he hears crashing coming from the woods.

His eyes are open in an instant, and terror floods his veins. He thinks about how stupid it was of him not to have crafted some sort of weapon: there are dangers in this world besides bears and snakes, as he has discovered in this past week, and if the demons are looking for the Winchesters, they might just find him by accident. He scoots as far back into the cave as he can go, hands scrabbling the ground for a rock or a stick, anything to defend himself. The crashing continues, getting closer and closer, and Castiel sighs and closes his eyes, preparing for the worst, preparing to die--

“Cas?”

Castiel’s eyes snap open and he scrambles to the mouth of the cave.

“Dean?”

“Oh, thank God.”

Dean is on him in a second, wrapping a big woolen blanket around his shoulders and touching him everywhere, as if feeling for wounds or some sign of sickness.

“Are you okay? Are you hungry? I brought food. I’m so sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but my dad was-- well, you saw him, and then I was stuck with shotgun shell duty and then Sam and I had to talk and it was all so stupid--”

“Dean.”

“And all day I just wanted to come out here and find you and make sure you weren’t dead because God, Cas, I don’t want you to die, and I know you wouldn’t have died in less than twenty-four hours, my dad was wrong, you’re stronger than that, you’re not just a civilian, Cas, you’re... you’re awesome, and he was wrong about the other thing, too, Cas, that’s not what I think of you, you’re more to me than--”

“ _Dean._ ”

Dean quiets, but Castiel can see in the dying light that Dean looks absolutely paralyzed with fear and relief, like he was expecting to find Castiel’s skeleton, picked clean of flesh by wolves or something.

“I’m fine,” he says, his earlier fears of the day banished in a moment by the look on Dean’s face when Castiel cards fingers through his hair. “I caught a fish.”

“You did?” Dean sounds proud. “I should have known. You’re a regular Bear Grylls.”

“Who is that?”

“Never mind. Come on, eat something.”

From a backpack, Dean produces blocks of cheese and a sleeve of crackers, and they eat in silence, Dean sitting closer to Castiel than necessary, as if he can’t bear to not be touching him. They finish and pack the rest of the food away, and when Dean reaches for him, Castiel goes willingly into his arms. They don’t fuck, or even kiss, they just lie there in the darkness, until Dean speaks.

“I wasn’t really afraid you were dead,” he says quietly. “I was... more afraid that you’d hitchhiked back into town. That you’d gone back to Westborough and I would just be this weird, awful memory that you would never tell anyone about.”

Castiel shifts in Dean’s arms. He doesn’t know how to tell Dean that he’s never going back there, doesn’t know if this will be welcomed with celebration or awkwardness.

“I don’t,” Dean says, and then stops. Castiel can feel his jaw stiffen. “I don’t get to keep much, Cas. I’ve lost a lot of people. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Castiel says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said.

Dean is getting worked up now.

“You don’t know that,” he says, frustrated tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “One of those demons killed my mom. They’ve killed my dad’s friends, and my friends, anyone who was close to us. They could kill you, too. It’s not safe to be important to me.”

“I don’t care,” Castiel says, firmly, and it may sound like something directly out of his romance novels, but it’s exactly how he feels.

“Good,” Dean says. “I know it’s selfish, and I should tell you to go, get out, hitch a ride back to town, save yourself, but I don’t want to. I want you here, with me.”

“I won’t die, Dean.”

“Good,” Dean says again, his voice raw, his throat constricted. “Don’t.”

And then his lips are on Castiel’s and they’re pressed up against the stone wall of the cave, sharing each other’s warmth in the cold night, and Castiel realizes that he’s never been happier than he is right now, kissing Dean in the dirt in the dark.

They sleep spooned under the wool blanket, their legs intertwined, Dean’s arm wrapped firmly around Castiel, who is tucked under his chin.

“I’ll make him understand,” are Dean’s last words before he falls asleep. “I promise.”

\----

Dean is gone when Castiel opens his eyes the next morning. He panics for several minutes, his mind going everywhere at once: Dean was eaten by bears, Dean was killed by demons, Dean drowned in the lake...

He calms down once he finds the note written on the cracker wrapper: “TALKING TO DAD. BE BACK SOON.” Not demons. Not bears, or drowning. He won’t lose Dean to nature or evil. It remains to be seen whether he’ll lose him to his own father.

It’s now been a while Castiel has taken a shower, so he sheds his clothes down to his boxers and slips quietly into the lake. The cool water feels absolutely decadent to his skin, and he revels in the still waters, fish tickling his feet as they pass. He’s not sure for how long he swims, or even how far, but when he makes his way back to the cave, and his clothes, he sees a figure standing on the shore.

He hangs back at first, watching the figure closely (it’s a man, or a very tall boy), but then the man raises up his arm and waves enthusiastically, a wide grin on his face, so Castiel decides to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hello!” the man calls (up close, he looks more like a boy). “You must be Castiel!”

Castiel clambers up onto the shore and takes the towel the boy offers him.   


“Yes?”

The boy holds out a big hand, grin still huge on his lips.

“I’m Sam,” he says, showing white teeth. “I’m Dean’s brother.”

“Of course,” Castiel shakes his hand. Of course this is Sam. Dean called him “a floppy-haired, oversized puppy in human clothing” and that was exactly the picture standing before him. “Sam. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Ditto,” Sam says, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “Dean hasn’t shut up about you since I got here. He must like you a lot.”

Castiel can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck.

“He’s back at the cabin talking to Dad,” Sam says as Castiel towels off his hair. “Dean told me about how you helped him kill Lilith. Personally, I want you on our side if we have to go up against the rest of the demons. Dad just gets... touchy about people he doesn’t consider family.”

“He was surprised,” Castiel says, grabbing his jeans from where they were folded beside the cave. “I understand.”

Sam gives him a look that’s an odd mix of sympathy and respect.

“Do you want to come back to the cabin?” he asks as Castiel pulls on his shirt.

When Castiel gives him a skeptical look, he just rolls his eyes.

“Look, our dad yells a lot, but he won’t throw you out if Dean and I both want you to stay,” Sam says. “And I want you to stay. So come on.”

Sam carries the large woolen blanket while Castiel shoulders the backpack Dean left behind, and they set off towards the cabin together.

When Sam enters the cabin with Castiel directly behind him, John’s eyes narrow and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean, in complete contrast, smiles so hugely it looks like his face is going to split in half, and when his father isn’t looking, he brushes his fingers against Castiel’s like a whisper.

Now that John has arrived, the idyllic cabin has been transformed into a miniature magazine. There are guns on every surface: shotguns, rifles, and pistols, not to mention all the non-firearm weapons, like the enormous machete lying on the breakfast table. John, appearing to accept Castiel into his little army only on the condition he act like a solider, immediately sits him down next to Sam and gives brief instructions on how to pack shotgun shells with salt. Castiel follows his orders efficiently and correctly, and John looks mildly impressed before scowling and storming off.

“He likes you already,” Sam tells him as Dean follows his father, throwing Castiel a grin over his shoulder. “He just won’t admit it yet. He has to keep up the ‘big-bad-military-man’ act until you kill something.”

Castiel isn’t used to speaking to anyone besides Dean (and even that was fairly recent) but Sam is absorbed in his work and doesn’t seem to need to fill the silence with chatter the way his brother does.

“Sam,” Castiel says once the entire table is filled with completed shells. Sam turns to look at him and raises his eyebrows in response.

“Does Dean do this often?” he asks, and Sam doesn’t need clarification of what Castiel means by ‘this’.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Sam says, looking slightly embarrassed. “Dean gets around. He likes flirting and he likes sex. He’s kind of a slut. But as for your actual question,” he smiles genuinely at Castiel, “he’s never brought anyone up here before. And he’s never let anyone meet me or Dad.”

Castiel tries to keep himself from smiling, but he’s sure he fails because Sam laughs at him. He wants to treat this piece of news like it barely phases him (the way he knows it probably should), but he can’t help his relief. Whatever is going on between him and Dean may have happened fast, but it’s so big to Castiel, so all-consuming; the knowledge that Dean doesn’t just do this for every pathetic awkward schoolmate who wanders into his path makes him want to go into the next room, grab Dean, take him to bed, and make him stay there for weeks.

He figures he should probably control himself, however, until the demons are out of the way. 

John comes stalking back through the door, Dean in tow, and nods approvingly at the shotgun shells laid out before Castiel and Sam.

“Nice work,” he says. “Load up the guns. Sam, show him.”

As Sam shows Castiel how to load a shotgun, John paces before them like a military officer delivering strategy to his troops.

“Azazel and Alastair probably tracked me up here,” he says. “We had all the salt lines rigged up so they couldn’t follow us, but Dean and I just cut them, so once Meg joins them, they’ll probably head up here to finish us off. They won’t want to attack without her-- they hate being outnumbered.” 

John grins, and it’s the first time Castiel has seen him smile. He thinks faintly that he might enjoy the scowling more.

“They don’t know they’re outnumbered anyway,” Sam says, matching his father’s smirk.

“You’re our secret weapon,” Dean flings himself into the chair next to Castiel and nudges him, a proud smile on his face.

“Yeah, well, he ain’t gonna be much of a secret weapon if he can’t hit a target,” John frowns. “Dean, take him outside. Show him how to shoot. Sam and I are going to repaint the devil’s traps.”

Dean and Castiel grab a pair of guns and troop outside to the backyard. There’s a whole mess of empty bottles in a heap, and Dean begins to line them up along the fence. Castiel swallows at how small the targets look from where he’s standing.

Dean begins to position his arms so that he’s holding the gun the right way, but he seems dissatisfied with the result. Finally, he steps up behind Castiel and guides him into the proper stance. Castiel shivers at how closely Dean is pressed up against his back. Dean sighs a laugh into his ear.

“How cliche is this?” he says. “We’re a bad romantic drama, man.”

Castiel turns his head slightly so his lips ghost over Dean’s.

“I like romantic drama,” he says in his lowest voice.

Dean chuckles, but there’s something else there, too, something dark and needy.

“Just shoot the gun, Humphrey Bogart,” he orders.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,” Castiel says, and wincing, he pulls the trigger.

Miraculously, one of the bottles shatters, and Castiel almost drops the gun in shock. Dean whoops.

“You’re a natural,” he says, clapping Castiel on the shoulder. “Now try again, without my help this time.”

It’s both more difficult and far easier to shoot the gun without Dean snug against him, and with the exception of a couple practice shots that hit the surrounding trees, Castiel manages to shatter every bottle on the fence.

“This isn’t very hard,” Castiel says.

“Hey, just wait until you’re trying to hit a moving target that’s coming at you with a knife,” Dean smirks, but he must notice how Castiel pales slightly at his, because he steps forward and pulls him in by the hips.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m gonna have your back the whole time. You and I already make a great team, right? We took out Lilith in less than five minutes.”

Castiel nods firmly, gripping the shotgun with two steady hands.

“Now that you’re an expert shot,” Dean says, sliding his hands around to rest on Castiel’s back, “and we’ve got some alone time...”

Castiel smiles, letting himself be pulled up against Dean’s body, and he winds his arms around the other boy’s neck. Dean dips his head and presses their lips together, soft at first, and then more demanding, persistent but relaxed, sweet as sugar. They wrap even tighter together, and Castiel’s not sure he’ll ever be able to tear himself away from Dean ever again, not if Dean keeps doing that thing with his tongue...

There’s a rustle in the bushes and Castiel wrenches away from Dean.

“What was that?” he asks.

He almost expects Dean to laugh at him, but when he looks at the other boy, he is scanning the trees with a determined look on his face and strategy in his eyes.

“Grab your gun,” he says quietly. “Stay back-to-back with me. Don’t let them get behind you.”

Castiel nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat, and he raises the shotgun in his arms, remembering Dean’s arms around him, pretending they’re still there, perfecting his stance and his balance.

They stay like that for a few minutes, not daring to speak unless they miss another telling sound, and Castiel is just beginning to relax, sure it was a squirrel or a bird, when a voice behind them says coolly, “Hello, boys.”

“Don’t turn around, Cas,” Dean barks. “Keep your eyes on the trees. I’ve got him.”

The demon (Alastair or Azazel, Cas wonders) clicks his tongue.

“Dean,” he says. “Don’t get so worked up. Let’s just talk this out... like friends.”

“You are not my friend,” Dean growls. “Fortunately for you, I don’t want to kill you. I promised Sammy that he could have that particular pleasure. I want your brother. Where’s Alastair?”

“You don’t want to stay here with me?” Azazel puts on a faux-offended voice. Castiel wants desperately to turn around-- the faceless voice is more terrifying than anything else-- but he follows Dean’s instructions.

“Don’t make me pump you full of rock salt,” Dean says. “I guarantee, it won’t be fun for you. Go on, you’ve played scout... go back to your brother and your sister and tell them we’re ready.”

“Will do, Dean-o,” Azazel laughs, a rasping, ugly sound. “Always a pleasure.”

And then he’s gone-- Castiel can feel the shift in the air. Dean sags in relief and grabs Castiel’s arm to drag him back into the house.

“Thank god,” he says, “We aren’t even close to being ready. Here,” he shoves a flask at Castiel, “it’s full of holy water, it burns their skin. They have the power to throw us, but it weakens them, so they’ll only do it as a last resort. We’ve only got one of those daggers that kills them, and Dad has it, so the best we can do it shoot them until they fall into one of the devil’s traps, and they’re pretty much everywhere.”

He’s right: Sam and John have painted entrapments all over the cabin, by every door and one large one in the family room. Dean pulls Castiel close and slides an amulet on a thin black cord around his neck.

“Anti-possession charm,” he explains. “Right now, they’re in vessels, and there’s nothing to stop them from leaving one body and just getting into yours, except now you’re wearing this.”

He taps the charm with his forefinger, and the amulet thuds against Castiel’s chest like a heartbeat. Dean’s touch fills him up with courage.

“Dad!” Dean calls. “They’re here!”

John and Sam come pounding out from the back room.

“Just finished the devil’s traps by the porch door,” John says. “That’s the last one. The only way they can come in is the front door. We’ll be right here waiting for them.”

They didn’t have long to wait.

The door crashes open after only a few moments, and the three demons stroll in as if they are arriving at a party. There are two men and one woman; one of them men is tall and thin, with sunken eyes, his brother a stocky character wearing a cruel smirk. Their sister has curly brown hair and a sweet round face, and Castiel’s chest tightens when he thinks about how that body belongs to a human, a girl.

“Hello, Winchesters,” Meg says in a cool voice. “Isn’t this fun? We haven’t all been together like this since--”

“Shut your mouth, you bitch,” Dean snaps.

“Dean,” John chastens him. Castiel knows that John is trying to keep everyone calm; an excitable Dean could mean a risky Dean, and that could be trouble for all of them.

Meg’s eyes slide around the room, taking in all the devil’s traps, and they harden when they reach Castiel.

“You must be the boy from the convenience store who helped kill Lilith,” she snarls. “That was my sister, you meatsack. I’m going to stuff your liver down your throat. Although,” he feels her eyes slide up and down his body, “I might have some fun with you first.”

“Back off,” Dean growls.

John rolls his eyes and sighs, but Meg has already caught the possessive tone in Dean’s voice.

“Oh, does he belong to you, Dean?” she asks sweetly. “Come on, we can share.”

So far, the male demons have been silent throughout this exchange, but the tall one interrupts as Dean is about to retort.

“As thrilling as this is, may we move on?” This must be Alastair; his voice sounds like it’s being squeezed out of a very small tube. “I’m really looking forward to killing you all today and I’d like to get started as quickly as possible.”

“Be my guest,” John says, and Alastair moves.

All hell breaks loose once the first aggressive movement is made; within seconds, Meg has Castiel pinned up against the wall, her breath smelling like blood against his face.

“You’re so cute, I might let you live,” she breathes in his ear. “Keep you around, tied up somewhere fun...”

From behind him, he hears John yell, “Dean, no!” and the terror at what Dean might be doing gives him strength.

He shoves Meg away with all of his might and fires the shotgun directly at her chest. Meg screams, her arms flying up to clutch at her chest and stomach, and the time it takes for her to recover is enough for him to splash her with holy water and kick her into the devil’s trap in the family room. She gives him a look that makes the hair on his arms stand up, but she can’t hurt him, so he looks around the room to see if anyone else needs help. 

John looks up in surprise from where he and Sam are tangling with Azazel. Sam has Azazel’s arms and John has a large bag of salt in his arms.

“Nice job!” he says, pouring as much salt as he can down Azazel’s throat. The demon coughs and sputters blood and other things Castiel doesn’t want to think about.

“I think she underestimated me,” Castiel pants. “She thought I’d be an easy target, her guards were down.”

“I’m giving you a compliment,” John grunts as Azazel struggles. “Take it.”

Castiel can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at John’s words, but his enthusiasm fades when he realizes that Dean and Alastair are gone.

“Where’s Dean?” he asks, panic creeping into his voice.

“They took off into the woods,” Sam says. “You should go after them. Come on, Dad, let’s get Azazel into the devil’s trap.”

Castiel takes off out the open door of the cabin, his shotgun ready in his arms. He stops to listen for sounds of struggle, but the woods offer only the normalcy of twittering birds and rustling leaves. Castiel begins to run, not knowing whether he’s even headed in the right direction. He knows he’s making too much noise to be able to sneak up on Dean and Alastair, but at this point, his main objective is finding them and he doesn’t care how he does it.

He stumbles out into a clearing, and a nasally voice says, “Nice of you to join us.”

Castiel spins and his heart drops into his feet. Alastair has Dean by the throat up against a tree, and there’s blood all over Dean’s face.

“See, I told you your boyfriend would find us here,” Alastair stage-whispers in Dean’s ear. “Now I get to kill him while you watch.”

“Run,” Dean croaks, but Alastair presses a thumb into his windpipe, and before Castiel can move, he throws out an arm and pins Castiel to an opposite tree, keeping him there with his powers alone. Castiel struggles, but it’s as if there are invisible ropes binding his arms and legs.

“How do you think I should kill him, Dean?” Alastair asks. “I could... cut him into tiny little pieces, starting with his feet? I could make him choke on his own tongue. I could open his chest and give you his heart.” He draws a long, thin finger down Dean’s cheek. “You see? I am a romantic.”

“I was going to kill you quickly, Alastair,” Dean gasps, his eyes burning. “But if you hurt him, I will torture you for years and never let you die.”

“Well, now you’re just sweet-talking me,” Alastair grins. “Come on, Dean, let’s see what we can do with little Castiel here...”

In the moment where Alastair’s attention is partially diverted between the two of them, Dean whips his knife out from his coat and slices Alastair in the hand that’s gripping him around the throat. Alastair cries out, and with his focus redirected, Castiel falls from his tree and Dean slips out from underneath his arms.

“Oh, you’re not getting away that easy,” Alastair grabs Dean, clearly intent on striking him, but Castiel takes a running leap and fastens his arms around Alastair’s neck, bringing the demon down on top of him. Alastair scrambles up and is about to bring his foot down on Castiel’s face when Dean knocks him to the ground, and before the demon probably realizes what is going on, Dean brings the knife down right into his chest.

Alastair’s eyes spark with flame the same way Lilith’s did, and then they slowly fade, but Dean doesn’t stop. He keeps bringing the knife down into Alastair’s broken body, now riddled with knife holes. He doesn’t stop when blood spatters his face, or even when Castiel gently calls his name. The look on Dean’s face is manic, animalistic, and Castiel can hardly see the boy who held him tenderly just the previous night. Dean keeps going, stabbing what used to be Alastair, until his arm strength fails him, and then he falls, in a slow arch, onto the ground.

Castiel watches from a distance as Dean curls in on himself, his body convulsing. Castiel doesn’t know if he’s crying or just shaking with the shock, but he stays where he is and simply keeps watch.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there and watches Dean, but the sky turns the color of a bruise and the forest is dark before Dean finally sits up, his arms trembling.

“Cas?” he says hoarsely, and Castiel is beside him in a moment, a gentle hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and Castiel can see tear tracks on his face.

“Sorry for what?” Castiel whispers back, as though the whole forest is listening in.

“I scared you,” Dean says, and what Castiel hears is _I scared myself_. “I’ve just waited so long for him to be dead, and then I just couldn’t stop, I--”

Castiel quiets him with a hand on his cheek, and Dean holds him in place, squeezing his eyes shut against what Castiel is sure are more tears. Dean pretends to be a man, but it is moments like these that Castiel remembers that Dean is a boy, just like him, and that he can be truly scared.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Castiel says definitively. “You were very brave.”

“I don’t want to scare you away, Cas,” Dean says, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know what I would do if you went away and you thought I was some kind of--” He stops, but Castiel sees the word painted plainly across his face. Monster. “Everybody leaves me,” Dean sounds like he’s speaking more for himself now. “Everybody. And everybody will. And I’ll be alone.”

Castiel looks at Dean for a moment, then pulls him close so that Dean’s head is resting in his lap.

“No, Dean,” he says, stroking the other boy’s hair. “You have a wonderful father who wants the best for you. Your brother adores you and worships the ground you walk on. And,” he pauses, not wanting to overstep with his boundaries, but then he throws his caution to the surrounding trees, “and you’ve got me. Always,” he adds. “You’ve got the three of us, forever.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but nestles closer into Castiel’s lap, so Castiel continues to run his fingers through the other boy’s hair until night has truly come to the forest and they are plunged completely into darkness.

\----

They make it back to the cabin much later, where Sam is burying Azazel’s body.

“Where’s Meg?” Dean asks.

“Dad exorcised her,” Sam answers. There’s blood on his cheek. “He took the girl, the vessel, to a hospital. She doesn’t remember anything... he told her that he found her wandering around the woods.”

“So, it’s over? ” Dean asks, sounding almost scared.

Sam nods, and there’s a look between them that Castiel can’t begin to understand; it’s a look of two people who have been dedicated to a cause since before they can remember, and now they have their whole lives ahead of them.

“I don’t think I ever planned living this long,” Dean says, and he reaches for Castiel’s hand.

Castiel twines their fingers together and it’s like this that John finds them when he returns to the house several hours later. John Winchester sighs.

“So, that’s it, then?” he asks tiredly, and Dean nods. John straightens and fixes Castiel with a look. “Well, you did okay, Dean. He did good today.”

From John Winchester, that’s like a blessing of marriage, and Dean’s hold on his hand tightens. Castiel doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s smiling.

“Can I go back to school, Dad?” Sam asks. “I have a test tomorrow that I would love to not-miss.”

“Nerd,” Dean throws at him.

“Jealous,” Sam throws back.

“I’ll take you back to school in the morning, Sammy,” John says. “I think we all need a good night’s sleep. In beds,” he adds, with a look towards Dean and Castiel. Then, realizing what he said with horror, he adds, “Separate ones! In different rooms! Dean, don’t look at me like that! Go brush your teeth! You’re a child, for God’s sake!”

That night, as Castiel lies in bed (without Dean, unfortunately-- John was serious about the separate beds thing, so Dean gave him a very thorough goodnight kiss before they retired to their rooms) he thinks about what will happen when the sun rises.

Castiel doesn’t have much back in Westborough-- a mother who loves him, but doesn’t need him, a room full of romance novels, a school transcript that’s respectable but not spectacular. And the thinks about Dean, and how he’s never felt more needed than he does with Dean. He thinks about how much Dean has taught him in five days, the press of Dean’s fingers on his skin, the way he smiles when he’s proud of him.

And he makes a decision.

The next morning, Sam hugs him goodbye, and it feels like _I’ll see you again soon_. John gives him a hearty clap on the shoulder that sends warmth through his entire body. They get into John’s truck and drive away, leaving Dean and Castiel standing in the driveway watching them go. As soon as they’re out of sight, Dean breaks away from him and heads towards his car.

“So I’ll just drop you off at the city limits,” he says.

Castiel doesn’t understand, so he doesn’t say anything.

“I mean, you must be missing your mom,” Dean says, and he’s not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “And... friends, or whatever. You can tell the cops I kidnapped you. It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have any friends,” is all Castiel says.

Dean swallows and refuses to look at him. Castiel’s heart drops into his stomach and he feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“If that’s what you want,” Castiel says, wishing he didn’t sound so broken and desperate.

“It’s what’s best,” Dean says. “You have school. Your family is probably worried about you.”

Castiel doesn’t say that he doesn’t give a fuck about school. He wants to say that his mother would probably be happy if he did something scandalous like run away from home-- it would give her something to gossip about. He doesn’t say that all he wants is to spend the rest of his life in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, doing whatever Dean is doing. He just bites his lip and swallows hard so he won’t cry in front of Dean.

They get into the car and they drive down the mountain in silence. Dean turns on the radio to fill the quiet, and every song sounds like it’s playing during the rolling credits on the film of Castiel’s coming-of-age story; after a nice adventure, the changed boy goes back to the town he came from and finishes school and becomes a businessman. Castiel doesn’t want that to be his story. He can’t go back.

After a few hours, Dean pulls over directly in front of the “Welcome to Westborough” sign. They sit for a few moments; Castiel has no idea how to say goodbye.

“Well,” he says. “Thanks. Bye, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean is studying his steering wheel with a focus bordering on fixation. “See you around.”

“But you won’t,” Castiel doesn’t say. _You’re never going to see me again_.

Castiel has a hand on the door handle, the door cracked open, a foot out on the street, and then two, and then he is out of the car, slamming the door, standing on the side of the road, pointed towards the last place on Earth he wants to be.

He begins to walk, and then he can’t hold it in anymore. Tears escape his eyes and flow in bitter trails down his face. He hopes that Dean can’t see his shoulders shaking from where he is.

“Cas!”

Castiel turns around to see Dean standing beside his car, looking lost.

“I... I didn’t say thank you,” Dean says. “For Lilith, and Meg. And Alastair. You don’t know what that means to me, to my family. So... thank you.”

Castiel can only watch him. The pain that is coursing through his body makes him incapable of saying anything, even if he wanted to.

“And... just know,” Dean says, looking at his feet. “I’ll never forget you. I wish...” He trails off, looking determinedly over Castiel’s shoulder.

“You wish what?” Castiel says before he can stop himself.

Dean looks at him. “I wish I could ask you to stay,” he says simply.

Castiel can’t stop his feet from moving until he is directly in front of Dean.

“Ask me to stay,” he orders.

“Cas, my life isn’t-- you deserve--”

“Ask me to stay!”

Dean swallows, and then he says in a very small voice, “Stay, Cas? Stay with me?”

Castiel throws himself into Dean’s arms and presses their lips together. Dean responds so enthusiastically that he lifts Castiel off the ground.

“You idiot,” Castiel says when they break apart. “I can’t believe you let me get out of the car. I can’t believe you almost let me walk away.”

“I didn’t like watching you walk away,” Dean admits. “But Cas, you have to know. This life... it ain’t easy. Not a lot of money, or glory, or anything. Mostly it’s bloody and tiring and--”

Castiel cuts him off with another kiss.

“I’ll be with you,” he says. “That’s what I want. Don’t ever let me walk away again.”

“I won’t,” Dean says, and there’s a promise there that Castiel can feel everywhere in his body.

“Well,” Dean smiles. “Are you coming, or are you coming?”

Then they’re in the car, Castiel in the passenger seat, speeding down the highway. Dean puts on music again, but this time it doesn’t feel like the credits are rolling.

It feels like a beginning.


End file.
